The Bridge

meticulous habits
die hard, so hard
that the price
for its absence is
mind numbing headaches.
The psyche suffers
to tame the beast within.
To end the torture
I subscribe to.

There's tension
when my conscience
speaks. Our arguments
start with "I wish you'd leave"
and ends "why cant you stay?"
I wonder if it's
exaggerations of reason
dangling from a cliff,
my wits end.

Color me gray,
like the depths of an urn.
Like the soul
of a perfectionist.
Like the zipper
on the coat of denial,
its warmth outlasting
its discomfort